


To Know

by imogenbynight



Series: Odds and Ends [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, easy to ignore if that's not your bag :), post s9 in which cas is human again and living at the bunker, the sam/jody is all in the background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 17:11:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1656125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imogenbynight/pseuds/imogenbynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean tells Castiel not to open the box on top of his dresser while they're away. He doesn't, exactly. But he still sees what's inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Know

**part one**

 

The biggest downside to being human, Castiel finds, is how susceptible he is to illness. Whatever immunities Jimmy Novak had built up over the years have been entirely lost, and in barely a month and a half of his second shot at mortality he's already come down with no less than three different ailments.

This time, thankfully, it's only a bad headcold. He aches; he can't stop sneezing. He feels as though his head is stuffed full of cotton and mucous. In short, he feels awful, and yet as he tells Sam as he passes him in the hall, it's still infinitely preferable to the 24 hour stomach bug he'd picked up a week earlier.

He's been laying in his bedroom all morning, feeling sorry for himself in between bouts of uncontrollable coughing, when he hears Sam on the phone in the hallway.

“You wanna run that by me again, Jody?”

Sam's voice fades as he walks further away, and Castiel pushes himself unsteadily to his feet, making his way out of the room. He walks slowly, his aching head spinning a little as he goes. The lights of the wide hallway are too bright, and he misses the cool dark of his bedroom immediately.

By the time he arrives in the library, Sam is off the phone and Dean is standing up from the table, stretching his arms up over his head. Preparing to leave.

“Is there a—a--” Castiel's eyes water with the sudden need to sneeze, but after a few drawn out seconds it passes, leaving him achy and itchy and strangely unsatisfied, “ _dammit_.”

“Yeah, there's a case,” Dean smirks at him, “you doin' any better?”

Castiel frowns, irritated.

“Stop smiling,” he says, wrapping his arms around his own middle when Dean's smirk only grows wider, “I feel awful.”

“Aw, you'll live,” Dean tells him, but his face is kind, and his hand comes down, warm against Castiel's shoulder, so Castiel decides to forgive him for his mockery, “you hungry? There's still some of that soup I made you.”

“Not right now. What's the case?”

“You remember Jody?” Sam says, and Castiel nods.

“I've heard of her, yes.”

“She's got a ghoul problem up in Sioux Falls.”

“That town can't catch a break,” Dean says, shaking his head.

After a short argument over whether or not Castiel is fit to join them on the hunt—lost when he  __ hocks up a lung _ _ _ , _ according to Dean—Sam and Dean disappear into their respective rooms to pack. Within an hour they are at the bunker's door.

"We shouldn't be gone long," Sam tells him, hoisting his bag higher up on his shoulder, "two days, tops."

"Alright.”

"There's some cash on the kitchen counter if you need anything. And don't forget--" Dean says, jabbing a finger at him, "flu meds __ three times a day _ _ _ .  _ That goes for food as well. And call if you need any—what's the joke, Sam?"

“Nothing, nothing,” Sam laughs at Dean, before turning a serious look toward Castiel, “don't forget to brush your teeth and scrub behind your ears.”

Dean rolls his eyes, and Castiel narrows his own.

“I always wash thoroughly."

Laughing, Sam claps him on the shoulder.

"Take care of yourself, man," he says, and makes his way out the door.

When he's out of earshot Dean turns back to Castiel.

"Make sure you drink plenty of water, okay? You've gotta keep fluids up when you're sick."

"I know."

“Good. You know where to find my DVD's if you get bored?”

“Second drawer.”

“And don't touch the—”

“Box on top of your dresser, I _know_. Though why you care is beyond me. I have seen pornography before.”

Dean flushes and clears his throat.

“There's some shit that's just private, Cas.”

“I still think you're being ridiculous,” Castiel replies with a roll of his eyes, then nods out the door to where Sam is shoving his bag into the Impala, “shouldn't you be going?”

“You trying to get rid of me?”

“Jody could be eaten by ghouls, Dean.”

“Right,” Dean nods, his grin fading, “I'll call you when we get there.”

“Drive safely,” Castiel tells him, and wonders if he should offer a hug. Before he's decided if it's appropriate or not, he's alone.

The bunker feels big when it's empty, and his footsteps echo through it's cavernous depths as he heads back to his bed, stopping along the way to take his medication. The food, he thinks, can wait.

* * *

 

He sleeps the rest of the day. By the time he wakes up it's after ten in the evening, and he's got three missed calls, a voicemail, and a growling stomach. Miraculously, he feels considerably better, and while he heats up a pot of the tomato rice soup Dean had left in the fridge, he listens to the message on his phone.

“Hey, Cas, it's a little after four... we just got to Jody's place now. About to go check out the cemetery, see what we can see. Hope you're feelin' better, man.”

With the rich smell of soup wafting through the kitchen, and the sound of Dean's voice on his phone, Castiel finds he does. He sends a message to Dean to tell him as much, and carries his soup out to the library, careful not to let it slosh over the edges as he goes.

The spare laptop is waiting where Sam left it, and Castiel puts his bowl down by it's side, heading for Dean's room to find something to watch while he eats.

Despite having been given permission to go into the room, he still hesitates by the door.

It feels odd to go inside on his own; even when Dean is here, he feels strange about entering this room. It puts something nervous and rolling in his stomach, something he tries to ignore. He may be newly human, but he knows what the feeling is, what it means. He knows, overall, that in this case it's not welcome.

Shaking it off, he flips on the light and steps inside.

Eying the box on top of Dean's dresser, Castiel crosses the room. He's tempted, so tempted, to look inside. His hands almost itch with it. He clenches them into fists and firmly tells himself that there are  __ boundaries _ _ _ . _

Pulling open the second drawer, Castiel looks over Dean's DVD collection. It's a small collection, pressed up against one side of the drawer, and the other half is taken up by a spare blanket and a pillow. He trails a finger over the spines as he tries to decide.

Star Trek is the most represented in the drawer—there are four different cases for the series—and Castiel half pulls one out before pushing it back in. He remembers Dean telling him excitedly about the program some time ago while Sam laughed at him from across the table, and decides that he'd rather watch it with him. It's always more enjoyable, he thinks, to watch things with Dean. Though if he's honest, it's mainly watching Dean enjoying things that he likes.

His phone dings loudly from out in the library, then, and instead of wasting more time trying to decide he pulls out a case at random before heading out of the room.

He dumps the DVD onto the table by the laptop and grabs his phone to find a simple two word message from Dean.

__ Call me _ _ _ , _ it says.

Castiel lifts the phone to his ear as he sits down. His soup has cooled enough to eat, and he stirs it a couple of times, scooping up a spoonful while he waits for Dean to answer.

“Hey, Sneezy,” Dean says as soon as he picks up, “how's being home alone treating you? Throw any wild orgies yet?”

“I've been sick all week, Dean,” Castiel tells him, pausing with the soup spoon halfway to his mouth, “I don't think it's really an appropriate time for promiscuity.”

Dean snorts at him. Castiel smiles to himself, proud, before blowing on the soup.

“Have you located the ghoul?” he asks.

“Yeah, done and dusted. Ugly fucker never stood a chance,” Dean pauses to yawn before adding; “You sound better. Less phlegmy.”

“Hmm,” Castiel agrees, sipping another spoonful, “I started feeling better soon after you left.”

“Ouch, Cas. You wound me.”

“Don't be an idiot.”

Dean laughs again, and Castiel smiles wider. Knowing he can make Dean laugh always does something to him; leaves him warm and pleased and a little prideful.

“So, Sam and Jody went out to get some grub. An __hour__ ago,” Dean tells him, and there's something in his voice that gives Castiel pause.

“Yes?” he prompts.

“The Taco Bell is like five minutes away,” Dean says pointedly.

Castiel sits up a little straighter, pushing his bowl away.

“Are you concerned? Should you be out looking for them?”

“ _Dude_ ,” Dean laughs as if Castiel has missed something, “I'm pretty sure they're hooking up.”

“Hooking what up?” Castiel asks, then his eyes widen as he remembers the phrase, “Oh. __Oh__. I didn't know they were... is this new?”

“I want to say yes? But judging by the come-hither eyes when we first got here, maybe not.”

“Huh.”

“It was kinda gross. I threw up in my mouth a little.”

“That's unpleasant.”

“Eh, if they can get a little happy in this worldful of crap, good for them. Plus it means I've got free reign over the motel room for a while. Gotta love a little alone time.”

Pulling his soup back to continue eating, Castiel squints a little.

“How is it __alone time__ ,” he asks, “when you're spending it talking to another person?”

Dean pauses, and Castiel hears the shift of fabric as he shrugs.

“I dunno,” Dean says after a moment, “You don't really count.”

“I don't count as a person?”

“Not—like—shit, you know what I mean.”

“I really don't.”

“Forget it. What are you up to?”

“I was about to watch one of your DVD's.”

“Sweet, which one?”

“Uh,” Castiel leans forward, grabbing the case to read the title for the first time since he carried it out, “ _Casa Ero_ —oh. Um. I—this is—”

Something on Dean's end of the line falls over, and Castiel hears him scrambling. The prickle of embarrassment runs along his arms, his neck, his face.

“Dean?” he asks, “Dean are you there?”

“You—what—you—what did you _see_?” Dean asks, and his voice sounds panicked, barely above a whisper.

“I didn't—it wasn't—”

“No, you know what, just—don't tell me. Just put it back in the box. Don't—let's just pretend this didn't, uh—look, I gotta... I gotta go.”

Dean's still babbling when he hangs up, and Castiel looks down to see his grip on the case is tight, his knuckles white.

“ _Dammit_ ,” he mutters to himself, and gets to his feet, heading back to Dean's room. It feels colder; perhaps that's just from the phone call, though.

The box on Dean's dresser is more daunting now than before, but his palm is growing damp against the case in his hand, and Dean  __ had _ _ told him to put it inside.

So, steeling himself and trying to avert his eyes, Castiel quickly yanks on the handle at the top to open it and shove __ Casa Erotica 2 _ _ safely out of sight. But the box is too close to the dresser's edge, and in his haste, he pulls a little too hard.

The whole thing tips off the dresser, upending and crashing onto the floor of Dean's bedroom with a clatter. A false bottom falls out, sending papers flying, and there's a flash of color as something rolls under the bed.

“No no __no__ ,” he groans, squeezing his eyes shut, and leans against the dresser.

When he finally looks down, he sees a small clear bottle that has thankfully not broken on the fall, and a couple of DVD cases like the one still in his hand—something called  __ Lords of the Ring _ _ that he tries very hard not to look at too closely and another that appears to be a cartoon about some kind of human-octopus hybrid. It doesn't look remotely suitable for children.

There are magazines, too—three of them in total. All of them look around fifty years old.

Mostly, though, there's paper. Sheet after sheet, covered in Dean's messy handwriting.

Stooping down, he picks up the false bottom. When he looks to see how it fits inside, he sees that there's barely two inches of space underneath it. He guesses it's where the paper came from.

Ducking back down, he gathers the pages. He doesn't read them. Just carefully piles them together, making sure the edges all line up, and puts them into the base of the box. It's not until he's reaching beneath Dean's bed for the last two sheets that his fingers bumps against something rubbery and smooth, and he pulls it out from the shadows. It's... it's a—

“ _ _Oh__ ,” Castiel says, staring at it with wide eyes as he puts it down and presses his mouth shut. He averts his eyes, looking instead at the sheets of paper in his other hand, and by chance, sees his own name in the middle of it. His gaze flicks between the purple— _ _no__ , he tells himself, looking away, __boundaries__ —and the paper, and without really meaning to, he reads.

It's a short piece; a letter.

The writing is messy and lopsided, the paper punctured in a couple of places as though Dean wrote it with the page pressed against his knee, and as he reads, Castiel feels his throat constricting.

__ Mom _ _ , it begins.  __ We finally found Cas today. Nearly gave me a coronary for a minute there, but he made it, and he's home. For good this time, I think. I hope. _ _

The paper crumples a little in his hand, and he shuffles across the floor to look at the others. The letters, from what he can see, all start the same way.  __ Mom _ _ .

He fishes them back out of the box and shifts up to sit on Dean's bed, sinks down into the memory foam with his back pressed to the headboard, and reads.

__ Mom, I nearly lost Sam today. Can't stop shaking. _ _

__ Mom, I wish I could figure out what exactly you used to put in apple pie that made it so good, because the thing I just made was an affront to taste buds everywhere. _ _

__ Mom, I know this is stupid. These letters. It's such Dr Phil bullshit, y'know? But it kind of helps. Don't really know how, but it does. _ _

__ Mom, would you believe the Stones are still touring in 2013? _ _

__ Mom,  _ _ _~~_ I think _ ~~ _ __ I'm in love with Cas. _ _

Castiel's heart stutters in his chest, and he makes a small, involuntary sound he wasn't aware he was capable of. With trembling hands he lowers the page, staring at the words that can't possibly be there and yet decidedly  _ a _ __ re _ _ .

_I'm in love with Cas._

In love.

For a split second, he thinks he should throw caution to the wind, call Dean and tell him in no uncertain terms that he saw the letters, that's he's sorry he read them when Dean didn't want him to, that he feels the same. But, he knows that the moment he admits to Dean that he saw what he wrote, Dean will panic, and he wont get any further. He'll tell him eventually; it's just a good idea not to  _ open _  with that.

At any rate, Dean is not generally a man of words; he's a man of action. Action, then, Castiel decides, is the best option. He has to  _ do  _ something. Make Dean understand that he loves him; that he wants him, in every sense he can.

The obvious choice is a kiss.

When Sam and Dean return to the bunker, he'll get Dean on his own, and he'll kiss him. Simple, he thinks, even as his heart thunders helplessly at the thought.

First, though, he needs to put an end to Dean's current panic.

After returning everything to the box and putting it back on the dresser, he makes himself comfortable on Dean's bed and dials his number. Almost immediately he hears a beep when the call is denied. He sends off a text message instead.

__ Casa Erotica was in the drawer, not the box. I picked it up by accident. _ _

There's no response, no call, and after a few minutes Castiel begins typing another.

__ If you don't call me back I'm calling Sam to check on you. _ _

He doesn't get to send it before his cell starts ringing, and something in his chest flutters.

“Dean?” he answers, and is surprised by how breathless he sounds.

“Hi."

Castiel hears him flop back against his motel bed.

“So, uh, sorry for the freak out,” he says, and he sounds exhausted, “There's... private stuff in that box.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, barely keeping the smile off his face, “I gathered. Is Sam still with Jody?"

Dean huffs out a laugh.

"Yeah," he says, "I got a message a few minutes ago telling me I'd need to find my own food. Don't think I'll be seeing either of them again tonight."

"More alone time, then," he says, and Dean makes a sound of agreement, "When are you coming home?"

"Tomorrow. Should get back around four."

"That late?"

"It's like six hours on the road," Dean says, "you miss me or something?"

"Yes," Castiel says, and before Dean can react he goes on, "when you get back, I have something for you."

"You been down in the storage rooms again? Sam's gonna be in nerdvana if you found another bookshelf."

"No," Castiel says, "this is for you, specifically."

"What is it?" Dean asks.

"Tomorrow," Castiel says, and Dean groans.

"C'mon, man, gimme a clue. This motel doesn't have cable, I need the entertainment."

Looking around, Castiel chews on the inside of his cheek.

"It's already in your room," he says after a moment, and shifts to make himself more comfortable, shoving the pillow around and leaning back.

"You're giving me something that's already mine?"

"In a way," he smirks to himself, "but you don't  __ know _ _ it's yours."

"You're talking like a goddamn bridge troll, you know that?"

"It's slightly warm," he says, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, "though that isn't a permanent state."

"Seriously," Dean says with a laugh, " __ bridge troll _ _ ."

"I could stop giving you hints," Castiel points out, and Dean huffs at him.

"No, no. Give me another one."

"You're never going to guess."

"I can try. Warm, already in my room..." Dean clicks his teeth together as he thinks, "alright, yeah, I got nothin'."

"It's bigger than a bread box," Castiel offers.

"Then how could it be in my room without me knowing?"

"I assure you, it's in your room right now."

"Well, what's it  __ doing _ _ in my room?"

"Sitting on your bed," he says, and immediately tenses, presses his fingers down against the soft blanket, because perhaps that was too obvious. He should stop talking, end the call, wait for tomorrow.

Dean exhales, slowly, and Castiel waits for him to speak.

"What are _you_ doing right now, Cas?" he asks carefully, and all thought of ending the call disappears, because Dean's tone tells him everything. He knows.

Castiel's mouth runs dry; when he replies, his voice is quiet, hoarse.

"Sitting on your bed."

Before Dean can respond, there's three short beeps on the line, and the call cuts out.

  
  


* * *

  
  


**part two (dean)**

 

Over the years, there have been multiple occasions on which Dean has wanted to strangle his brother. This is possibly the worst of them. Because Sam has the Impala. Sam has the Impala with the phone charger in the trunk. _Sam has the phone charger,_ and Dean's pretty sure that Castiel just told him he's into him. And he's on Dean's bed.  Talking about it.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean groans for approximately the seventy-eighth time, before his eye line falls on the motel phone. He nearly trips over his own feet in his hurry to get to it.

He's been laying here, going damn near out of his mind since the battery ran out and there's a goddamn motel phone. He'd feel like a moron if he had the ability to focus on anything right now.

“Pickup, pickup, pickup,” he mutters into the receiver, and is rewarded instead with an awkward voicemail recording. He waits impatiently for the beep.

“Cas, my phone died, I didn't hang up on you. I, uh... shit. If you were saying what it sounded like, then, uh... good. That's... I'm... Good. It's good. I'll, uh... I'm in. I mean, I'm... Fuck, I'm rambling. I'll just... I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay? Okay.”

He ends the call, rubs his hands over his eyes, and looks at the time. Barely half past eleven.

It's going to be a long night.

 

* * *

 

Sam arrives back at the motel at nine in the morning with the kind of smug just-got-laid expression that would be irritating even if Dean had managed to get a decent amount of sleep last night. As it is, he barely slept at all. He'd given up around five o'clock.

For hours he's been sitting at the table by the window with his bag packed and an assortment of vending machine candy spread out in front of him. The TV only gets one station, and since the sun came up it's been one televangelist after another. If Dean has to hear the word _praise_ one more time he's going to break something.

He sees the Impala the moment it pulls into the parking lot, and is out the door before Sam has even shut off the engine.

“You ready to get going?” Dean asks as his brother climbs out of the car, and Sam's post-coital grin falters a little.

“Jody has today and tomorrow off,” Sam says, and he rubs at the back of his neck, “I was hoping we could stick around a couple days?”

“We can't just _stay_ ,” Dean says, and Sam scrunches up his face.

“Why not?”

“Cas is at home,” Dean reminds him, and hopes his face doesn't betray anything. Not that he's planning on hiding this from Sam if something comes of it, but just in case he gets back to the bunker and it turns out that Cas has brought in a stray labrador or something, he thinks it'll be better if he's the only one who knows he's an idiot. He's had a lot of self doubt since last night. Not sleeping will do that to you.

“He's a big boy, Dean. I think he can stand to be on his own for a couple of days.”

Dean isn't entirely sure what it is he does with his face at that, but Sam raises his hands and takes a step back, so it mustn't be friendly.

“Jesus, what crawled up your ass?” he asks, then holds out the keys, “you wanna go home so badly, you can go. I'll make my own way back.”

The little part of Dean that wants to convince Sam to just come home today is quickly told by the rest of him that this is probably one of those gift horses that people are always talking about, so he reaches out and swaps the room key for the Impala's.

“How are you gonna get back?”

Pulling open the back door to retrieve his bag, Sam sends him a look.

“This might come as a shock to you, Dean, but I kind of have this history of stealing cars.”

“I don't think the Sheriff is gonna be too happy about that,” Dean tells him.

Sam's cheeks go pink and he bites back a smile.

“Shut up,” he says, taking Dean's duffel and throwing it in where his own had been, “I'll think of something.”

“Alright, then. Say bye to Jody for me,” he says with a wink, and slides into the drivers seat. Sam gives him a half wave and takes out his cell—presumably to tell Jody he's sticking around—and Dean hits the road.

Ten minutes later, he's well on his way out of Sioux Falls, and the nerves kick in.

The longer he drives, the more anxious he gets, and he can't stop imagining walking in to the bunker to discover that he completely misread the conversation. He presses on anyway.

* * *

 

Dean arrives back at the bunker in record time. It's just gone half past two when he pulls up outside, and the cloud of gravel dust is still settling as he makes his way down to the door.

It's cooler inside the bunker than out. Quiet, too.

His boots clunk loudly on the staircase leading into the war room, and when he reaches the bottom he hears movement in the hallway. Castiel steps out into the library a moment later, dressed in one of the old t-shirts Dean had given him when he moved in. His hair is more disheveled than usual. He's staring at Dean like he's not quite sure what his first move should be. Dean can relate.

“Hello, Dean,” he says with a half smile, and Dean breaks into a grin.

“Hey, Cas. How's your head?”

“Much better,” Castiel says, before looking around the room and up the stairs, “where's Sam?”

“Sioux Falls. He's spending some, uh, _quality time_ with Jody, so...”

Dean clears his throat, tugging awkwardly at the strap of his duffel where it's digging into his shoulder, and gets the distinct feeling that the elephant in the room might actually be a mammoth.

“Dean?”

“Hm?”

“Follow me?”

With an awkward nod, Dean gulps.

“Yeah,” he says, voice thick, “okay.”

Castiel walks away, down the hall, and Dean makes his way slowly behind him. There's an entire flock of _something_ flapping restlessly in his gut, and when he sees Castiel walking into his room up ahead it gets even worse.

He blows out a long breath through his nose, chews on his lip, and steps through the door.

Castiel is sitting cross-legged on his unmade bed like he owns the thing.

“Did you sleep in here last night?” he asks, and Castiel lifts one shoulder.

“I fell asleep after we spoke,” he says, “and when I woke up in the middle of the night I was too comfortable to bother moving. You don't mind, do you?”

“No,” Dean says, still standing in the doorway, “no, not at all.”

Smiling up at Dean, Castiel pats the space beside him. It's the most awkward thing he's ever seen, and Dean's floored by how much he loves this dork. He drops his bag by the door and makes his way across the room, coming to a stop at the edge of the bed.

“So,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck, not quite sure why he can't bring himself to sit, “you, uh... had something for me?”

Castiel rolls his eyes, and without bothering to answer he pushes to his knees, leans up, and kisses him.

He's clumsy about it at first, catching Dean's mouth a little off-center, and it's obvious that he kind of has no idea what he's doing—but Dean can feel little puffs of breath against his skin, and the scratch of stubble catching against his own, and the damp warmth of his lips, and when he brings up a hand to Castiel's cheek to guide him, Castiel follows without pause.

When they break away for breath, Castiel is staring up at him with no more intensity than usual, and Dean isn't entirely sure what to make of it.

“So... that happened,” he says, and Castiel laughs aloud, turning his face a little so his lips catch against Dean's palm where it still rests.

“I suppose it did,” he agrees, “I...”

He lets out a breath, presses his eyes shut.

“What is it?” Dean asks.

“I lied.”

“About what?”

“I saw inside the box,” he says, and Dean drops his hand away, “after you told me to put the DVD back, I knocked it off the dresser and... I saw the—”

“A lot of people use those,” Dean cuts him off, feels his face growing warm, prickling with embarrassment, “it's, uh—”

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel interrupts him, “I saw the letters.”

“Oh,” Dean says, and promptly runs out of steam. If it had just been a matter of Castiel seeing his porn collection and his dildo, he thinks the embarrassment would fade quickly. But those letters were never meant to see the light of day. That's why they were hidden there, after all. He always figured that anyone opening that box would see what was in the top half and promptly close it.

“I wasn't going to read them,” Castiel goes on, “but then I saw my name, and—”

“You saw _that_ letter.”

“Yes.”

“Is that why you...”

Dean gestures between them, and Castiel nods.

“It's why I finally worked up the nerve,” Castiel says, “not why I kissed you. I've wanted to do that for a long time.

Dean swallows, hard. It's not exactly how he'd wanted things to go, but Castiel kissed him, and has _wanted_ to kiss him, and presumably wants to do it again. He's not going to complain.

“Okay,” he says, and leans back in.

It's better this time. Slower. Castiel's lips part under his with a tiny murmur, and his hands work their way around Dean's waist, pulling him close. Soon enough Dean finds himself crawling up onto the mattress, shuffling forward on his knees until Castiel falls back against his pillow.

“Is this okay?” Dean asks, looking down at Castiel as he tries to catch his breath.

“Yes,” he says, nodding, reaching up to pull Dean back down, “please. Kiss me again.”

Without pause Dean kisses him deeply, open-mouthed and aching, and Castiel tugs at his hair, at his collar, his hands roaming endlessly as he tries to pull Dean closer.

There's no sound better than the one Castiel makes when Dean closes his teeth around his lower lip, so he does it again and again, biting down before soothing the reddened skin with the tip of his tongue.

When he feels Castiel arch up beneath him, grinding helplessly against his thigh, he moans.

“This is, uh...” Dean pants, pulling back for a moment, pausing when Castiel grinds up again with a stuttered moan, “this is kinda moving out of kissing territory.”

“Is that alright with you?”

“It's more than alright with me, I just want to make sure you're—”

Castiel's hand slips around to grip Dean's ass, and he squeezes, pulling him down and pressing their hips together.

“ _Fuck_ , that's a yes, then,” Dean manages, and Castiel hums his assent, kisses him again, pulling and turning until Dean finds himself pinned to the mattress.

Castiel presses down, rolling his hips, and Dean feels the hard swell of him. He swallows the broken moan that falls from Castiel's lips, keeping it, claiming it as he claims his mouth.

“God _damn_ , Cas,” he says, moving to bite and suck against his throat.

He  _ wants _ , and he says so with every push, every pull, every wet slide of tongue. He hooks his fingers under the hem of Castiel's shirt, sliding fingertips up over his sides, his stomach, the dip of his navel. He pushes him up until Castiel is kneeling over him, and strips him slow, letting his hands ghost over every inch of skin he can reach, savoring every hitch of breath, cataloging each place that sets Castiel's eyelids fluttering, his mouth slack.

When his fingers reach the button of Castiel's jeans, he hesitates, glancing up at Castiel's face. His eyes are half-lidded, his lips pink and swollen, and Dean can see the rapid thrum of his pulse at his throat.

“Is this—” he starts, and Castiel's hand joins his at his waistband.

“Yes,” Castiel urges him.

Their clothes fall away, jeans kicked free, and Dean finds himself kneeling again, straddling Castiel's bare thighs and pressing kisses to his chest before moving down to bite and lick at the tattoo over his hip bone. Beneath him, Castiel breathes heavily, reaching out to trail warm hands over Dean's skin, tickling soft at his sides.

Crawling back up the bed, Dean leans over him, kissing him deeply as he takes them both in hand, and Castiel lets out a loud groan, pushing up against Dean's palm, his own reaching back to pull Dean's hips closer. They slip and slide together, sweat-slick skin easing their way. When his hand squeezes Dean's ass, Dean pants, pressing his eyes shut, forehead leaning against Castiel's.

“Fuck,” he breathes, “I want...will you...”

“What do you want?” Castiel asks, rolling his hips up, “show me.”

“Here.”

Reaching back, Dean directs Castiel's hand lower until his fingers slide over the tight muscle.

“Will you?” he asks, more nervous than he thinks he's been in his entire life, “do you want—”

“Yes,” Castiel says, and presses his fingertip a little more firmly, drawing a gasp from Dean.

“I haven't—it's been a while,” Dean says, “Just go slow. And we'll need—”

“Lubricant, yes, I know.”

“How do you know that?”

Despite his flushed skin and thoroughly messed up hair, Castiel manages to level him with a haughty look that says _I'm older than the Earth, Dean._ Dean nods once.

“Right.”

Before Dean knows it, he's turned over with his knees folded beneath him. Castiel's lips press against his shoulder before he pulls away briefly to rifle through the box on top of the dresser. When he returns, the mattress dips down, and Dean arches up at the feeling of Castiel's hands trailing up and down his back. He draws it out, moves slowly, and at last Dean hears the snap of a plastic cap. The pressure returns, wet now, cool against his sensitive skin, and he pushes back instinctively against Castiel's slow-moving finger, catching at the rim, and feels a sharp sting as it presses in to the first knuckle. He hisses through his teeth. Castiel stills, though his other hand doesn't stop sliding soft over Dean's back.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice a little shaky.

“Mmnf,” Dean says, or tries to say, or something, but it's difficult with his teeth clenched around his lower lip, and he nods once as he tries again, “move.”

Castiel does, slipping it out before he repeats the action, slow, circling, pushing a little further each time until his finger slides in easy, and he adds a second. Soon, Dean's panting open mouthed against the pillow. Fingertips skim up and down his side, trailing fire in their wake, and Castiel shuffles closer, leaning down to kiss his back.

“Good,” Dean says eventually, “more. Please. Please, Cas.”

 

“I don't think I've ever seen you so polite,” Castiel murmurs against him, lips pressed to flushed skin.

 

“I won't be polite in a fucking second if you don't _ahh_ —”

He feels Castiel smile against him as he presses a third finger in beside the first two, reaching around with his other hand to stroke low on Dean's stomach and down, through the tangle of hair to wrap tight around the base of Dean's cock. Dean's toes curl. He whines. He'd be embarrassed by it if he didn't feel like he might explode at any moment.

Castiel presses forward, his cock sliding between Dean's thighs as he moves his fingers in time with his hand, and Dean can barely think.

"This is... you're very..." Castiel curls his fingers. Dean tenses, bites out a low sound and arches back, fingers digging into the sheets.

Whatever Castiel was going to say is forgotten as he does it again, and again, and Dean gasps because it's too much, it's not enough. He feels the press of lips against his shoulder, hears the wet slip slide of Castiel's fingers and Castiel's heavy breath above him.  
  


“Please,” Dean moans, not even caring that he's begging now because _fuck_ he needs more, “need you. Please. Now.”

  
Castiel shuffles ever closer on his knees, leaning down so he's draped over Dean's back, and presses his lips against his nape.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice rough.

" _Please_ ," Dean grinds back against his fingers until he pulls them free, moving away. He's never felt so empty in his life.

  
It doesn't last. There's a few seconds, the wet sound of Castiel slicking himself, and then the blunt hot press, the burn, the stretch as he pushes slowly inside. Dean bites into the soft flesh of his forearm, muffling his moan while Castiel chokes out a whimper, breath hot on his back.

“Dean, I— _ahh_ —”

  
Castiel's hand finds its way to Dean's shoulder, and Dean reaches up to grasp it. His eyes are stinging as his body adjusts, stretching to let Castiel in, and when he's fully inside he holds still for so long that Dean thinks he's going to lose his mind.   
  
When he finally starts to move, each stroke languid, drawn-out inch by inch, Dean squeezes his hand tight, waiting for the sting to pass. He's not at all prepared for the sudden jolt of pleasure when Castiel's cock collides with his prostate, and he's loud, too too loud, and he presses his face down into the pillow to muffle the sounds he can't seem to stop making before he remembers that they're alone in the bunker.  
  
Above him, Castiel picks up his pace, his slow, deep thrusts becoming rapid, erratic, and Dean can tell he's close. He rocks back against every thrust, letting his body pull Castiel deeper, and the hand he isn't holding snakes around his waist, flat against his stomach as Castiel leans over him, chest against his back, lips moving over his spine.

“Dean, I'm—I'm—” he pants, stutters, “I think— _ahh_ —I'm going to—”

  
Dean drops his hand and reaches back, manages to grab hold of his thigh, and pulls him, holds him inside, fingers slipping against sweat-damp skin.

“Want you to,” Dean pushes back, thighs shuddering, “don't stop, don't—”

  
Castiel's breath is hot against his back, and he drives in hard, slamming into Dean's prostate, tensing up as he comes with a loud groan that soon turns to breathless laughter, and he kisses Dean's back over and over until he slips out. Dean feels the slick dribble of come running down his thigh and doesn't even care, just turns over, pulling Castiel against him, kissing him while Castiel clumsily strokes him to his own release. It hits him like a freight train, knocking his consciousness to a whole other level, and when he comes down, vision slowly returning to a place that makes some kind of sense, he laughs aloud.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

“Indeed,” Castiel agrees, and, glancing over to see Castiel's slightly dazed expression, Dean laughs until his eyes water.

When the hysterics wear off, Dean traces his fingers lazily up and down Castiel's side and lets him turn in against him, draping his arms around Dean's stomach.

“Next time,” Castiel says eventually, when Dean's almost asleep, “I want you inside me.”

Dean glances down at him, at his messed hair, and lets his fingers rake through it. Castiel's lips are warm where they press gently against his chest, and Dean wonders if he can feel the way his pulse speeds up.

“Mm,” he says, and feels Castiel's smile, “I think I can work with that.”

 

* * *

 

Dean wakes up to an empty bed, and glances down to see two sets of discarded clothes tangled up in the sheets, dangling over the edge of the mattress. Castiel's t-shirt is hanging off the side of the desk chair where Dean had thrown it.

Dean huffs out a laugh and rubs his palm roughly over his face before reaching for his jeans. Hooking his thumb through a belt loop, he pulls them closer to retrieve the cell from the pocket to check the time. It's almost seven in the evening.

Out in the hall, he hears the soft pad of bare feet approaching, and looks at the door in time to see Castiel walking in with the spare laptop, a bowl of microwave popcorn balanced on top. Dean's bathrobe hangs loosely on his frame. He smiles when he sees Dean looking at him.

“I was hungry,” he says, and Dean grins, putting down his phone.

“Yeah, I guess we worked up an appetite. We should get pizza or something.”

“Later,” Castiel agrees, putting the laptop down beside Dean's legs and holding out the popcorn, “here.”

Dean takes it, scooping out a handful, while Castiel walks over to his dresser and pulls open the second drawer.

“What're you doing?” Dean asks him through a mouthful.

“I want to watch Star Trek with you,” he says, taking the DVD from the drawer and tossing it down beside the laptop.

Before Dean has had a chance to respond, Castiel slips out of the bathrobe, leaving it to hang over the chair, and makes his way back around to the other side of the bed. _His side_ , Dean thinks, and can't keep the smile from his face.

“How did I get so lucky?” he wonders aloud, and Castiel raises an eyebrow, pulling the blanket up to his waist and wriggling closer, bare legs bumping against Dean's.

“A failure to properly hide your porn.”

Huffing out a laugh, Dean lets his arm fall around Castiel's shoulders.

“You're a dick,” Dean says with a smile, and before he can stop himself adds, “I kinda love you.”

Castiel beams, reaching out to turn on the computer, and when he glances over at Dean his eyes are bright.

“Then I suppose I'm the lucky one.”


End file.
